Disclaimer: See Act 1.
Author's Note: Apologies for how long it's taken to post this!
(Also, I must confess to shamelessly attributing to Hermione some of my personal favorite places in England, although I have to say, in my own defense, that it does make a lot of sense to me that Hermione would find companionship and comfort in places like Hatchard's and Blackwell's where she'd be surrounded by books. And I did put some thought into why Hermione would find those places comforting.)
Thank you, everyone, who's read and reviewed this fic so far; I hope this last Act is worth the wait.
Playing a Part
Act 6: The Play's End
Stupid, stupid, stupid, Hermione berated herself.
God, how could she have been so stupid?
She'd set herself up for this. She'd been asking for it, really, from the moment she agreed to this insane plan.
She knew she'd over-reacted when Harry had said he wanted to stop pretending, stop this whole act. She knew she'd startled him, had seen it in his expression as he stared at her and she knew that she'd probably given away her real feelings for him in doing so-more fool she.
But she just hadn't been able to help it. At almost any other time, she might have been able to better mask her feelings, might have been more prepared for it, but not then. She had thought she had a few more weeks of this pretense, a few more weeks of allowing herself to dream, allowing herself to pretend even if only for a while, that Harry loved her, desired her-a few more weeks…
She hadn't been prepared for him to end it so soon and so suddenly yesterday evening.
She'd thought it was going so well. Everyone seemed to believe that she and Harry were really a couple; she had had to fend off a few teasing words and sly hints, had caught a few envious glances and heard a few jealous whispers about how lucky she was. And she had found herself enjoying it. Not the jealousy or the innuendos as much as the hint of deferral to her opinion; she had found herself enjoying the assumption of her intimacy with Harry, not only physical (the physical part of it she found rather embarrassing) but emotionally. It was… nice, to have people know that Harry trusted her, that he cared about her. And perhaps, after all, she had enjoyed that part because it was the only part of this act that really wasn't a pretense. She did know Harry well and he did trust her more than anyone else but it was really only now when she was thought to be Harry's girlfriend that people seemed to really believe her closeness to him.
She had been so happy, enjoying herself so much. She had been prepared for this plan to be a combination of enjoyment and pain; she'd thought she was prepared for what it would be like…
But not even she could have predicted just how-how wonderful-it would be. She'd known she would have no difficulty in acting like she loved Harry, had even enjoyed finally being able to show all her deepest, most secret feelings in her expression as she looked at him.
But she hadn't quite imagined just how- how good- Harry would be at the act. Nor had she bargained for what it would be like.
She hadn't known that he could look at her and make her feel like the most beautiful woman in the world. She hadn't known all the sweetness he was capable of. She hadn't known the power of his gaze to turn all her bones to water.
She hadn't counted on the strength and the warmth of his arm around her, hadn't fully expected the safety of it, the utter comfort of it.
And she hadn't expected how fun it would be, hadn't expected all the shared laughter and the shared moments of amusement.
Falling in love with Harry had been easy, had happened naturally. But it was only in these past few weeks that she'd learned that loving Harry would be just as easy.
But most of all, she hadn't quite understood just how much she would grow to treasure the intimacy of it, manufactured as it was. She hadn't quite understood just how powerful the temptation was to believe in the act, how powerful the wish to hope that it might all be real…
It wasn't entirely rational-part of her mind was scorning how easily she'd deceived herself-but then when was anything to do with Harry completely rational?
She had allowed herself to forget that it was just an act, had allowed herself to pretend that it was all real…
Until he'd looked at her, with that nervousness in his eyes and his manner, as if he was afraid of letting her down, as if he knew just how she really felt, and told her that it was over.
The play had ended.
Her fantasy tumbled down in ruins around her and took her hope with it.
She knew her reaction had startled him with its intensity and its falsity but she hadn't been able to help it. She could only be thankful for the pride that had refused to let her show him any more, the pride that had come to her rescue and allowed her to stay calm.
And now the cowardice of hiding from him.
She knew this couldn't last. She lived in the same flat as him and she couldn't just disappear. She would have to face him and go back to only being his friend and nothing more.
And she would.
But not quite yet. She would give herself a little while longer to mourn and get her emotions back in order again.
And she would try to forget these past few weeks, how he'd looked at her and how he'd touched her, that one kiss he'd given her…
She would give herself a little more time to bury all the feelings and all the memories of these past few weeks deep inside her heart where she could (almost) forget they existed at all.
Just a little more time…
~
She wasn't given that time.
She supposed she shouldn't be surprised that he came to find her, given how precipitate her departure from the Ball had been and her equally hasty escape from the confines of their flat. She wasn't surprised.
But for the first time ever, she found herself wishing that he didn't know her quite so well, found herself wishing that he didn't know her well enough to know all the places she was likely to go to when she wanted to think. No one else, she knew, knew her well enough to find her. No one else-but he did.
She sensed his presence behind her before he spoke and before she could hear his footsteps, muffled as they were on the grass.
"Hermione."
She didn't turn around, couldn't quite bring herself to look at him yet. "You managed to find me," she said inanely. And part of her wanted to cry why he had to come find her, why he couldn't simply leave her alone but she didn't say it. She knew why he'd had to find her; she knew that he must have been worried from her over-reaction to his ending their act and then from her subsequent disappearance. She knew it; she'd expected it, even, but for once in her life, she wished he cared less.
"It wasn't easy," he responded, a thread of self-deprecating humor in his voice. "I've been searching for the better part of six hours."
And he had been. He'd thought of all the places she was likely to go to, discarded the idea of her parents' house because he knew she wouldn't want to worry them or to have to answer their questions, and for the same reason, discarded the fleeting idea of anywhere in Diagon Alley where she was likely to run into people who knew her. And he'd remembered what she'd told him once, years ago, at the beginning of the horcrux hunt, during one of their late night conversations about anything and everything when he'd been unable to sleep. They'd been talking about hide-outs and places to retreat to and she'd mentioned the places where she liked to go sometimes when she wanted to think and be alone. Muggle tourist places, for the most part, she'd admitted. They were familiar to her and comfortable because of their very busy-ness, the anonymity and the solitude that came with being among so many other people, none of whom would pay much attention to one lone girl. So he'd been to the National Gallery (made easier to search through the surreptitious use of a spell that allowed him to enchant one of the guide maps to show if Hermione was within the premises or not-she hadn't been) and to Westminster Abbey, and then St. Paul's Cathedral and then the Tower of London. He'd gone to Hatchard's, which he knew was one of her favorite places in London, which made sense because he knew how much companionship she received from books; he'd gone to the Victoria and Albert Museum, another of her favorite places. From there he'd Apparated to Oxford, to the Christ Church Commons, to the wilderness area in New College which he knew she liked, to Blackwell's that provided the same comfort as Hatchard's did of surrounding her with books, to the Ashmolean Museum. Her childhood haunts, for the most part, which she knew and loved from having grown up on the outskirts of Oxford.
She hadn't been at any of those places and it was only then when he finally realized that there was one other place she loved that would provide solitude at this time of year. Hogwarts itself. He hadn't thought of it at first because he always thought of Hogwarts as being busy and filled with students but it would be quiet and empty now, weeks before the start of the term.
And somehow, in that way a person sometimes senses things, he'd known she was here at Hogwarts the moment he'd set foot on the grounds. And sure enough, he had found her, staring out over the placid surface of the Lake, sitting under the big oak tree, in a position and a place that sent a pang of recognition through his mind from all the times he'd seen her in this place before.
She didn't turn around and he studied her back, suddenly at a loss. While he'd been looking for her, he hadn't stopped to think about what he would say when and if he did find her. It was only now that he was assailed with doubts and questions and fears. He felt insanely uncomfortable and ill-at-ease around her now and for a moment, he wished desperately that he could just go back to the old, uncomplicated friendship of the past seven years. But these past weeks and, more than that, his newfound knowledge of himself had ruined that.
For lack of anything better to do, he moved to sit beside her on the grass, also staring out over the lake as he tried (and failed) to formulate some coherent words.
After a moment, he heard himself blurting out, "Has it been so bad?"
Hermione frowned slightly. "What?"
"Has it been so bad," he repeated, although now that he'd asked it, he suddenly didn't want to know the answer but it was too late now and he finished doggedly, "pretending to be my girlfriend?"
Hermione knew a moment of surprise. Hadn't she made it obvious-painfully so-how much she'd treasured every moment of his pretending to love her, of this entire, mad scheme of his? "Of course not!" She calmed her voice down and added, almost in spite of herself, "It's been-it's been rather fun pretending."
"That's the problem! I'm not pretending anymore."
Hermione's breath seized in her chest, her lungs ceasing to work-but even if they had been working, she wouldn't have dared to breathe anyway. She didn't dare to breathe, didn't dare to move, hardly dared to blink, for fear that something- anything- would make her wake up from whatever dream she must have fallen into. "You-you're not?"
He turned to look at her for the first time since he'd found her. "No, I'm not," he said softly. "I want it to be real. I want you…"
"Oh Harry… I want you too."
His eyes widened fractionally and then a smile slowly brightened his eyes before spreading to his lips. "You do?"
She nodded, smiling into his eyes.
After a moment, a slight frown crossed his face. "Then why did you run away?"
They had both been blind, Hermione suddenly thought; they'd both been interpreting the other's words through the lens of their own fears and doubts, rather than their hopes. "I thought you meant that you wanted to stop pretending because you were tired of it or something."
A small smile curved his lips as he looked at her. "Silly, how could I ever get tired of you?" he asked and the tone of his voice made the epithet, silly, sound like the most touching endearment in the English language.
He didn't say anything more, just lifted one hand to touch her face, his fingertips brushing her cheek gently, in what was unmistakably a caress, his touch filled with as much wonder as if she were the most fragile, most beautiful, most valuable thing in the world. And it was amazing how just that light touch of his hand to her skin could make heat go through her body, seeming to radiate outward from where he touched her, how she could feel her bones dissolving.
His eyes lowered to focus on her lips. She stopped breathing, her body leaning towards him, drawn inexorably closer to him by the desire she saw flaring in his eyes, mesmerized at the warmth in them.
And then he kissed her and it was everything she'd ever dreamed of. The kiss itself began gently, his lips lightly brushing hers, but it was enough to set her heart beating faster, it was enough to make her entire body flush with warmth-because it was him, it was Harry, and she'd been wanting him to kiss her for longer than she would ever care to admit.
Her lips softened, parted, as she shifted closer to him, kissing him back with all the pent-up passion of months- years?- of loving him. She was vaguely aware of his hands sliding into her hair to hold her mouth in place as the kiss deepened, became a harder melding of lips and tongues. The desire that had begun to unfold inside her like a butterfly opening its wings to fly at the first touch of his lips exploded inside her as her body came alive, all her senses heightened and focused on him and her and the touch of his mouth, the taste of him, to the exclusion of all else. She was no longer conscious of the hardness of the ground beneath her or the slight stiffness in her legs from having been sitting in the same position for so long.
She was no longer conscious of time passing and it could have been hours, days, months, before the kiss finally ended when they both needed to catch their breaths and stare at each other with the surprise of discovering the intensity of the passion between them and discovering, too, what happens so rarely in real life, that the reality was much better, much hotter, than any fantasy they'd ever had.
"I've wanted to kiss you like that for weeks now," Harry admitted softly.
Her lips curved in a smile that was equal parts pleasure and wistfulness. "You should have. I wanted you to."
"Really?"
The surprise in his expression and his tone wrung a small laugh from her. "Oh, Harry, I've wanted you to kiss me long before we ever started pretending."
He stared at her for a moment. "I didn't know," he finally said. His lips twisted into a slightly wry smile. "I'm sorry I've been such an idiot."
She smiled. "It doesn't matter now," she said and kissed him again and that was the last thing they said for quite some time.
~*~
Harry smiled to himself as he waited, aware of a pleasant sense of-he couldn't believe he was feeling this way but he was-- eagerness. He was looking forward to the evening, to this last celebratory ball at Hogwarts, looking forward to going back to Hogwarts. But most of all, he was looking forward to this first ball when he didn't have to worry about anything, could treat Hermione with as much tenderness as he wanted to, with all the freedom which honesty allowed between them.
Now, after kissing Hermione countless times, touching her, he felt a flicker of anticipation as he waited to see
her. He had specifically requested that she wear the same gown she'd worn to the American Victory Ball when she had
first taken his breath away, so he could, finally, act on some of the desires and impulses that dress aroused in
him.
He knew her kisses now, knew the taste of her, and the feel of her skin-- he also knew the torment she could cause.
She'd asked that they wait before taking the final step, to give themselves some time to adjust to the reality of
their relationship, and he'd agreed. And in spite of kisses that had gotten deeper and longer and caresses that had
become increasingly heated and immoderate, they'd both somehow managed to stop. It had become a delicious torment,
the tension between them ratcheting up higher every day, imbuing every look, every smile, every word with added
significance.
He heard a faint noise and turned to look at Hermione-and his breath stalled in his chest.
She looked amazing. She had performed a clever Color-changing Charm on the gown so now it was purple. The top bodice part was a bright shade of amethyst that gradually darkened until the hem of the dress was a deep, dark purple.
She smiled at him and he knew a moment of sheer wonder at how he could ever be so lucky to know that Hermione was his…
He slid his hands around her waist to tug her gently closer to him, as he smiled into her eyes.
"You look beautiful," he said simply and with utter sincerity.
"So do you. I always did like the way you looked in dress robes," she smiled and deliberately skimmed one hand across his chest in a light caress, and he caught his breath at the flare of heat, his body responding to her touch as it always did.
He bent his head to kiss her-but then he heard a choking sound. They hurriedly separated to look over at Ron, who pulled an exaggerated grimace. "You two are sickening. Can't leave you alone for a minute, can I?"
Harry threw Ron a mock glare before he joined in Ron's laugh. This had become something of a running joke between the three of them, Ron's teasing masking what Harry and Hermione both knew was Ron's sincere happiness for them. But that was Ron's way.
And as they left their flat, Harry knew another moment of gratitude that his new relationship with Hermione hadn't changed their friendship with Ron.
He had missed Hogsmeade and Hogwarts, Harry realized, when he and Hermione and Ron Apparated there.
The town, too, looked to be in a celebratory mood with lanterns lighting up the path to Hogwarts. And for those guests who did not want to walk the way to the castle, the thestral-drawn carriages had been called into duty.
In a grim reminder of just how much they had to be thankful for, Harry realized that nearly everyone there, with the exception of a few very small children whose parents were clearly Hogwarts alumni, could see the thestrals.
Hermione looked at him and took a small instinctive step closer to him, her grip on his hand tightening fractionally. "I don't know what it is but I can't get used to seeing the thestrals."
He met her eyes. "I don't think we're supposed to get used to them really. I think we're always supposed to look at them and wish we couldn't see them."
"You're right," Hermione conceded.
"Can we stop with the gloomy talk?" Ron interrupted mildly. "This is a celebration, after all, of victory and heroism and all that."
"-to celebrate the living and remember the dead," a new voice added in a rather dreamy fashion.
They all turned to look at Luna in some surprise, who had somehow materialized next to Ron, appearing in her startlingly silent fashion.
"Hi, Luna," Harry greeted her.
"How are you, Luna?" Hermione smiled.
"Hullo, Luna," Ron said, rather slowly, as he stared at her. "Er-you look nice tonight," he added awkwardly, reddening a little.
She did look nice, Harry noticed. Her robes were green with accents of a burnt orange sort of color that would probably have looked terrible on anyone else but it suited Luna with her pale coloring. The only odd thing was that Ron had noticed and had complimented her.
"Thank you, Ronald. You look very nice too."
Harry stared for a moment in surprise. Was Luna-she was blushing and there was an odd note of self-consciousness and pleasure mixed in with her usual rather dreamy voice.
He blinked and then met Hermione's glance and knowing smile. Hermione had known that Luna fancied Ron? Of course Hermione had known, he answered his own question.
She gave him a slight nod as if to confirm his thought and Harry had to smile. Well, good for Ron. Luna was certainly nice and he suspected Ron found her oddities amusing.
The castle was lit up brilliantly and looked stunning.
"Oh, it's beautiful," he heard Hermione murmur beside him and he glanced at her, seeing the way her eyes shone, her lips slightly parted, and the way her face almost seemed to glow in the light spilling forth from the castle and the moonlight.
Yes, Hogwarts was beautiful but not half as beautiful as she was right then…
McGonagall had not arranged for any sort of announcement of their arrival, Harry was glad to note. So they entered the Great Hall almost as naturally as they had when they were students coming in to eat.
"Last one of these bloody things, thank Merlin," Ron said, sotto voce, beside them.
Hermione smiled a little. "Oh, I don't know. They haven't all been bad."
Harry smiled into her eyes. "No, not all bad," he agreed. "Some parts of them have been very nice."
"Maybe for you but not all of us are as lucky as you two," Ron retorted mildly. "Say, I wanted to ask Fred and George something. I'll see you later," he added and headed off towards where his family was grouped, followed by Luna.
As if on cue, Harry saw something that he definitely would not miss from these balls. One of his fans-the most persistent one who had somehow managed to corner him at every one of these events, was headed straight towards them with a single-mindedness of purpose which he found distinctly frightening. And to make it worse, she had apparently decided to abandon what little subtlety she'd had before, so her gown was a marvel in immodesty without being outright indecent. The bodice was cut low enough that it would probably be impossible for her to bend over and the rest of the gown clung to her body like a second skin. Was that supposed to be attractive?
"Oh no," he muttered to Hermione. "It's her." He didn't need to specify who he meant.
Hermione glanced over, paused, and then he heard a smothered sound halfway between a gasp and a laugh before she turned back to him. "Should I leave you alone so you can get the full benefit of that rather remarkable dress?" she teased.
He threw her a look of so much horror she stifled another laugh.
"Okay, then, I'll be nice," she relented.
"Thank you," he breathed with utter sincerity. And then found himself adding, "Dance with me."
She blinked and stared at him in some surprise and he realized that he really did want to dance with Hermione. "I really want to," he added.
"But, Harry, you don't like to dance," she objected.
He shrugged a little. "True, but then again, I've never danced with you."
"Fair point," she smiled as she followed him to the center of the floor where people were dancing and moved into his arms.
Out of the corner of his eye, Harry noted the decidedly displeased look on his irritating fan's face as she watched him and Hermione, but then dismissed her from his mind in favor of more pleasant thoughts like having Hermione in his arms, even if he couldn't hold her quite as closely as he'd like, in public as they were.
They didn't speak as they danced, slowly revolving around the dance floor, Harry watching the way the candlelight would occasionally catch the sparkle in her eyes, studying the shape of her lips which he already knew so well.
"I was right," he murmured softly. "Dancing with you is much better than dancing with anyone else." And it was more true than he'd thought, not only because he enjoyed being able to hold Hermione and be close to her without fear of interruption, but because, he realized now, the connection they'd always had that allowed them to somehow understand each other's thoughts extended to their movements. He remembered the excruciating awkwardness of dancing with Parvati years ago-it felt like a lifetime ago, before the War, before all the darkness and danger of the past few years-and constantly needing to worry about his feet. With Hermione, it seemed, he didn't need to do that; it was as if his body was attuned to his, knew where to step and how to move-and then he felt a flicker of arousal at the thought he couldn't help-if this was how they moved when on the dance floor, how incredible would it be in bed with her?
And then as if she had somehow sensed his thought and his desire, he saw her eyes darken, her lips parting slightly, her cheeks flushing-and he felt another wave of heat in his body at how utterly lovely she looked at that moment.
God, how could he ever have thought his feelings for Hermione were platonic? In moments like this, when all he had to do was look at her and feel a wave of lust, he could only be amazed at his own blindness.
But this wasn't the time or the place to think about that.
He tore his gaze from hers, glancing around in search of some distraction at least enough to take his mind off the desires of his body-and saw a flash of red hair and noted that Ginny was watching him and Hermione with slightly narrowed eyes.
Ginny-who had implied that Hermione couldn't really have captured his attention… And he felt the usual flare of irritation which he always felt whenever he remembered her words.
And even though it was probably not the smartest thing to do, given the lingering heat he still felt from the past few moments-to say nothing of not being the nicest thing to do--he couldn't help but react, wanting to show Ginny just how wrong she had been.
Deliberately, he slid his hand up from where it had been resting on Hermione's back, up behind her hair until his hand was touching the bare skin of her neck in a gesture of clear possessiveness and intimacy. (God, he loved the softness of her skin.)
He only peripherally noted the disgruntled expression cross Ginny's face, but then he was utterly distracted with the way he could feel the slight shiver that went through Hermione's body at his touch, the way her eyes darkened. (After all, what did they matter? What did any girl besides Hermione matter? At that moment, he was hard-pressed to remember there were any girls beside Hermione in existence…)
Desire twisted inside his gut, tugging at him. Good lord, how he wanted her…
She moved fractionally closer to him to breathe just one word in a low whisper. "Tonight."
For a split second, he simply stared at her before the full ramifications of that one word hit him and he was suddenly lost in a tidal wave of lust that swept over him in response.
"Can't we just go home now?" he blurted out.
She laughed softly-and he didn't know how it was but even her laugh aroused him now. "You know we can't-but we can leave early."
He deliberately pretended to pout, taking refuge in humor to try to defuse some of the coiled tension in his body. And he couldn't help but think, the evening wouldn't be so bad. He would spend it with her-and while lust was definitely part of what he felt for her, it wasn't all. He just loved to be with her, loved to talk to her, loved to laugh with her… (Not that any of this admittedly-true philosophy prevented him from willing the rest of the evening to pass very, very quickly…)
But after all, his misguided idea for the initial pretense aside, he knew it wasn't only the desire that had blindsided him. It was love-and that was what made this real, what made it right, what made it forever…
Make believe our lips are blending
In a phantom kiss, or two, or three.
Might as well make believe I love you,
For to tell the truth, I do.
~ "Make Believe" from "Show Boat"
~The End~